Cigarettes and Bluebirds
by ChurchRoofGirl
Summary: Carl/Pete, The Libertines. Carl is an RAF officer. He meets a fellow officer, Peter Doherty, romance ensues. AU!
1. Flypast

OK, it's probably not the best thing I've ever written, but I need to get into the swing of things. This is rather like '...Pieces of a Broken Heart'!

Flypast

He carefully adjusted his cap in the mirror above the sinks in the slightly grimy toilets. The light flickered above him. Then he stepped out into the chaos of the hangar. He loved this chaos- he told Pete he didn't miss anything about The Force, but the chaos wasn't even matched by the madness of London- and as he strode across the hangar floor to his plane (ER-442-TRF Bluebird- those letters were burned into his soul) he breathed in the wonderful smells: fuel, clutch fluid, smoke, sweat and aftershave. He grinned. "You ready, Barât?"  
He turned to see Group Captain Francis. They quickly saluted. "Yes, sir."  
Group Captain Francis nodded and sniffed. "Good to have you back, lad. Now, go on- get in."

He closed the cockpit roof and lifted the receiver. He flicked a switch on the radio by his knee. "Good morning, this is Wing Commander Carl Barât, AKA 'head' to fleet, fleet, do you copy?"  
One by one the flight responded.  
"Yes, sir."  
"Yes, sir."  
"Yes, sir."  
"Yes, sir."  
"Yes, sir."  
"Yes, sir."  
"Good. Taxiing onto runway," he eased the plane forward and out the hangar onto the tarmac. "Fleet, are you ready?"  
Six "Yes, sir,"s.  
"Head preparing for liftoff." He moved forward, gaining speed. Then he was flying. It was the most wonderful feeling. Like breathing out after a holding-your-breath-for-the-longest-contest with Pete. "OK, fleet, on this fine, fine morning we will be performing Operation 3, variation Delta. Do we all remember that from Cranwell?"  
Six "Yes, sir,"s.  
"Very good. We will be over the Thames in approximately twenty minutes and it is then manoeuvres begin. This is head to fleet, over and out." Then he gained height and watched as the ground beneath him slipped away. He sighed happily and shifted in his seat. As he flew, his thoughts turned to Pete, and the past. A flashback hit him like a bullet.  
It was his first day at Cranwell...


	2. First Day, Part 1

First Day, Part 1

"Yeah, I'll miss you too, mum."  
"No, Carl! Look at me!" He looked round from the train doors. His mum's face was stained with tears. "You don't have to do this, Carl."  
"I want to!" he exclaimed. "You know I want to!"  
His mum gave a reluctant nod then patted him on the shoulder. "We're all very proud of you, love."  
Carl smiled. "Thanks. Right, now, I've really got to get on. Love you."  
"Love you too, Carl. Go on."  
Carl hugged her briefly then hopped on the train as the doors closed behind him and it shuddered away from the station. He briefly saw his mum waving from the platform before she was out of sight. Carl sighed and found his seat.

He was sat opposite a pale, nervous-looking boy with the longest eyelashes Carl had ever seen on a male, who was biting his lip and not reading the NME open on the table between them. Anybody, gay or straight, could have seen that he was good-looking, with brown hair treading the line between straggly and greasy, deep chestnut eyes and china-doll pale skin. Carl opened a coke and the boy looked up, startled. He gave Carl an up-and-down before venturing, "Are you for Cranwell, then?"  
"Yeah. Are you?"  
The boy nodded.  
"Really? I mean...no offence."  
The boy gave a grim smile. "I know. Dad wanted me to. I enjoyed Cadets, I suppose, but I don't really like the idea of actual war."  
"Join the club. I just fancied the uniforms!"  
They chuckled and a brief actual smile passed over the boy's lips. "So how come you're not scared, then?" he said.  
Carl shrugged. "It'll be an adventure, I guess. It's like trying a new food, innit?"  
The boy looked at him oddly but didn't comment. "So what's your name then?"  
"Carl Ashley Raphael Barât." Carl didn't know why he'd told him his full name; he hadn't heard anybody call him that since Mrs Hill at primary school had caught him stealing marbles from the water tray. "What's yours?"  
"Peter Doherty. But people just call me Pete. Where do you hail from?" he added, theatrically.  
Carl was starting to like this kid. "Well, I'm from Basingstoke, but I went to school and stuff in Whitchurch. That's Hampshire."  
"Oooh, la-di-da. I was born in Northumberland but I've lived all over 'cos my dad's in the Army. He said I could choose an armed force and I was looking at some birds at the time and I was thinking how great it would be to fly. And here we are. How old are you, by the way?"  
"Turned 18 last week. You?"  
"18 too. Do you play, Carl Ashley Raphael?"

They talked for the whole journey, and Carl was almost starting to forget his destination when a voice on the tannoy announced, "Cranwell, this is Cranwell. This train terminates here, ladies and gentlemen, all change. Cranwell."  
Carl saw Pete's eyes go wide. "Shit," he murmured.  
"It's OK," said Carl, hoping he was being reassuring, "I'll...er...y'know."  
"Cheers, Carl. But what if...what if we get separated?"  
Carl shook his head. "I'll see we aren't." He saw in Pete what he saw in Lucie: a vulnerability, like he'd never really grown out of crying for his mum in trouble. They collected their luggage and stepped onto the platform. Carl could see some others who were clearly there for the College too- some of the girls had more muscles than him and Pete put together. There was a burly officer in uniform standing outside the café with a sign reading 'male officer cadets'. "I think that's us," murmured Pete, following the other men gravitating to the sign. When the group was large enough the man took a lingering drag on his cigarette and said, "Anybody not know their way to the college?"  
A few tentatively put their hands up, including Pete. Carl winked at him and he put it down. "Well, I think enough of you know your way for you all to sort yourselves out. Lads, one thing before you go off."  
They waited.  
"You better be shit-scared."  
And with that, they were sent off.

They arrived, all of them, and were met by a wall of similarly burly officers, all in big boots, peaked caps and blue suits. One of the taller, slightly less tough-looking ones with short blonde hair stood forward.  
"YOU CALL THIS A LINE?" he bellowed.  
One cheeky cockney voice at the back called, "Nope!"  
The blonde officer nodded to one of the others behind him and they all watched as someone was pulled by the shoulders out of the gates and sent back down the road. "Gentlemen, do you realise the seriousness of RAFC Cranwell? You aren't at home now. This isn't a video game. This is real life. You are going to be in the premier air force in the Commonwealth, the world. The RAF is not built on compromise, on letting people off. From the off, you will subject to extreme tests of your courage, strength, physical fitness and honour. If at any point you fail, you will be sent home. If at any point you complain to me or to your superiors about your pain, your exhaustion, how much you miss home, how you wish you'd gone into accounting, you will get no sympathy. We have all had to do this before you, and moaning to your fellows will get you no sympathy because they are all hurting as much as you.  
"But that, gentlemen, is not to say that you will regret coming here. We've seen men collapsing into their beds at night crying. But you should see their faces at their passing-out parade. The pride you will feel when you can sew those wings onto your shoulder and say that you are an officer is like no pride you will ever feel. When you see the respect you gain from your fellows, your family, your superiors and civilians, you will realise that you didn't feel like crying every night for nothing: you did it for your country, Her Majesty and the defence of both. Now, on that note, please make your way to Block C to receive your uniform then Block D to swear allegiance. Oh, and gentlemen."  
They all looked up. "Welcome to the Royal Air Force."


	3. Cameo Brooch

Brooch

"Oh, Carlos," said Pete, turning back into the sitting room, "Don't forget, we've got people coming to look at the flat tomorrow, so would you make a start on tidying up the attic?"  
Carl nodded and made an indistinct noise through a mouthful of cereal. Pete blew him a kiss and Carl swallowed as the door slammed shut.

Carl coughed as a tidal wave of dust rained down on him from the trapdoor and from the joints and hinges of the ladder. He climbed up and immediately made for it. It was a large cardboard box, and the only way one would have distinguished it from any of the others was that it had scrawled across the top in Pete's 7-year-old-esque handwriting the words 'Pete and Carl RAF stuff'. They had last touched the box five years ago, when they'd packed everything and closed the lid. Carl felt like he was committing some sort of sacrilege by opening it, but he did so anyway. The first thing in the pile was the one that carried the most emotional significance.  
It was a cameo brooch. It had an eagle, spreading its wings across the diameter. Its head was turned to the right and hung low, its body hunched, like it was in flight and about divebomb prey. Around the outside read, 'Per ardua ad astra'- Through Adversity to the Stars.  
On the back was carved '_granted to Pilot Officer Carl Barât on the occasion of his winning 'best on parade' at his passing out parade from RAFC. Well done lad!_'. He remembered being called to Sarge's office after they'd all packed their bags and were saying their goodbyes, and Sarge had wished him all the best at 64. Carl smiled. He'd been 19. A silly smile across his face, he'd climbed into Pete's dad's car and left Cranwell behind. He'd been flippant about it, but his heart was already aching.  
He remembered the first day again...


	4. First Day, Part 2

First Day, Part 2

They were placed in Dorm Eagle, which was (according to a man who looked only a few years older than them but who they had to call 'sir' nonetheless) the oldest in the College, and 'built on tradition, chivalry, honour...' Carl got bored of the Liam Gallagher-lookalike's lecture quickly and turned his attention to Pete. He watched him drift off and stare out the window. His lips are pretty, thought Carl, I wonder if he's a good kisser...  
Wait, what? Carl blinked and realised they were now standing up and getting ready to leave. Pete turned round and rolled his eyes at him before grinning. "Hey, Carl," he whispered.  
"Yeah?"  
"We're in the RAF!"  
Carl laughed. Pete was like a puppy.

They were put in the same dorm room, which they quickly understood to be quite different to a Dormitory, which was the building in which the dorm rooms were grouped. They were with two others- a scouse bouncer who looked like he could take on an H-bomb despite ostensibly having the figure of Ian Curtis, and a tall but extremely young-looking man who the scouse bouncer immediately gave the nickname 'forty' which then stuck. They were given the beds closest to the door, and instructed to unpack and be ready for dinner at 5. Carl could see Pete blush when he saw how little he had in his bag compared to Pete's five books, three pairs of skinny jeans and five band t-shirts, as well all the obligatory items on the list sent to them three weeks ago.  
"Hippy commune," was all Carl said, and all he had to say for Pete to nervously nod and change the subject.

Dinner was a mutedly friendly affair with casual small-talk made among them. For the first time since that morning at the station, they met the girls, all of whom, the scouse bouncer said, were 'fit'. Carl could sort of see his point of view- yeah, a couple of them had nice hair, and none of them were unattractive, but he didn't properly fancy them. He turned to Pete who wasn't saying much, but looking round, wide eyed, at the tapestries and paintings on the walls of the high-ceilinged hall, and drumming his fingers on the wooden table. He looked in awe at the Liam Gallagher-lookalike who had come in to say something to the officer sitting at the head of the table (who they had all spontaneously named Sarge). He had a peaked cap on, the full dress uniform giving him an air of a pompous but dignified knight in his court. A rifle was tucked under his arm. Sarge looked up and pointed to Pete. The Liam Gallagher-lookalike nodded and walked over to them. "You Peter Doherty?"  
Pete nodded.  
"That'll be 'yes, sir', or I'll have to consider awarding you your first order mark. Come with me."  
Carl involuntarily stood up when Pete did. "I'm sorry, is your name Officer Cadet Doherty?"  
"No, sir."  
"Then will you kindly sit down?" It was phrased as a question, but it wasn't a question at all.  
"Please sir," said Pete.  
"Doherty, are you challenging my orders?"  
"It's just, sir, can he come with...I mean..."  
"Doherty, are you physically incapable of walking without...what's your name?"  
"Barât, sir."  
"Without Officer Cadet Barât?"  
"It's just, sir, I mean, I need-"  
"Answer my question, Doherty."  
"No, sir, I am not physically incapable of walking without Officer Cadet Barât, sir."  
"Well, then, get to it."  
"Yes, sir. Sorry sir."  
Carl sat back down and as Pete walked off he could feel his absence, like he'd taken off a coat on a cold day. It was a curious feeling.


	5. Shift

Shift

Carl had woken up with a headache. He put it down to the weather- it was February, so it was almost a faux pas not to catch something- and asked Pete to make an extra-strong coffee. But later, when they were in the bookshop where they often liked to rifle through the underground magazines and books by obscure French poets (they'd never bothered to ask why it was called _Les Chiens Célestes_, or why it had a sign in by the counter saying 'no Stairway') that he noticed it properly.  
"Ow."  
"You all right?"  
"Yeah, just my headache suddenly got worse."  
"Do you want to take something for it?"  
"I'll be fine."  
And that would have been it if Carl hadn't fainted.


	6. BIM

BIM

"Officer Cadet Barât, would you care to explain to Officer Cadet Doherty what he has not been listening to?"  
"Sir, I think that Doherty should be cut some slack. His nan's just died, sir."  
"Are you questioning my authority, Barât?"  
He was going to get sick of that fucking phrase.  
"No, sir. Sorry sir."  
"I thought not. Now explain to Doherty what he hasn't been listening to."  
"Yes, sir," he turned to Pete who looked like one of the lads on the commune the night after the Burns Night Bonfire, "For the next four weeks we will be studying the Basic Instruction Module where we will be taught basic combat skills. This entails first aid, fieldcraft and weaponry with the SA-80."  
"Do you understand, Doherty?"  
Pete nodded.  
"I'm sorry, Doherty, I didn't hear you."  
"Sir, his nan!"  
"Barât!"  
"Sorry sir."

After the lesson with Warrant Officer Gallagher (as they'd all termed the Liam Gallagher-lookalike) they were told to go down to the shooting gallery. They were all issued an SA-80, and Carl was impressed to see that Pete was confident holding it.  
"What was your squadron?"  
Carl looked up. "What?"  
"In Cadets. Your squadron?"  
"33 Somerset. Yours?"  
"My last one was 92 Bedford."  
Carl liked his voice. It was quiet, and the cockney lilt was sweet.  
"Ai up, Forty ain't 'eld a gun before!" It was Scouse Curtis, as he'd become known, and some others were crowding round to jeer at Forty, who was blushing madly and fumbling over his rifle.  
"Can't hold a rifle?"  
"Eee, lickle Forty can't 'old 'is rifle!"  
Carl looked back at Pete, but he wasn't there. He was jogging over with his gazelle legs and rolling up his sleeves. "All right, lay off him. Not everyone was in Cadets, Scouse Curtis."  
"Oh, yeah? An' what you gonna do then, Popeye?" Pete's fists balled.  
"Pete..."  
"Ooh, look, Popeye's boyfriend!"  
"Gentlemen," it was Warrant Officer Gallagher, "If you don't all shut up and stand to attention in the next five seconds, you will all be given an order mark."  
Thank God, thought Carl, he wouldn't have a chance against Scouse Curtis.  
Oh, this was going to be a long 24 weeks.


	7. Hospital, Part 1

Hospital, Part 1

I'm so sorry, Pete.  
I saw you as they wheeled the gurney through the corridors. You were running beside them, looking down at me, and your eyes were wide and you had tears and some of them fell on me.  
"Carlos!"  
I couldn't talk to you. I couldn't talk to anybody. I was physically incapable of doing so.  
Oh, look at you! You're crying now, properly, and I can't say anything. I sat up. One of the nurses said something but I couldn't hear her. Oh, God, I've gone deaf! I looked at you with wild eyes and I tried to tell you something was wrong but you knew already because you just do, don't you? You know me like that shit painting by some Jewish depressive that you insist on having in the bedroom. I smiled but it's like a wolf's smiling and you don't smile back. "Something's wrong," you said. I jumped up and took your hand.  
"He can hear me, but he can't hear anyone else. Is that right?"  
I nodded fiercely but there was something wrong, because I didn't feel like me, I felt like when we'd do lines, and I felt like I was king of everywhere, but I felt angry just then, angry, and like I really had to be somewhere, but like I'd never get there. Pete!  
"He's deaf, and he can't speak."  
The nurse said something.  
"You have to get back into bed, mate."  
I needed to be somewhere, fuck bed.  
"Mate, get into bed."  
No, bed can fuck itself!  
Then I felt a prick in my arm and I saw Pete smile and then black.


	8. The Dolphin

_Sorry, this is a bit random and stuff. REVIEW!_

The Dolphin

"'Ee'y'are, we're up to The Dolphin. You coming?" SC stuck his head round the door of the dorm room. Pete was lying on his bed, a pillow supporting where SC had whacked him just a few hours before. But now, the arguments of the day were, apparently, behind them. I'd predicted that SC would be the first of the (gang to die, my brain filled in) lads to find Cranwell's nightlife and assimilate himself. There was the sound of some of the Wolves charging through the halls yelling 'LEAVE! LEAVE! LEAVE!'.  
"Pete?" I looked at him and he gave a reluctant smile.

"Bottoms up, lads!"  
I watched the blue swirl in front of my eyes before I felt it sting my tongue, the sickly sweetness of whatever was in it provoking the gag reflex. I coughed it down, however, but turned to Pete. "That's vile," I spat, and he nodded. He was pale and quiet. I wondered which was the real Pete- the friendly, chatty one on the train with the NME and pocketful of satsumas or the withdrawn and nervous one with a rifle and a newly-dead nan. I playfully punched his shoulder and he gave a weak smile. He had nice ears.  
Fuck!  
I'd been doing that all week- noticing things about him I liked. I liked the way he held a rifle. I liked the way he'd make time to visit the planes in the hangar. The way he'd stop in front of an old Spitfire he'd called Nancy. The way he had a Union Jack tea towel and would whistle 'Land of Hope and Glory' while washing the dishes. The way he'd always be the one to turn left, not right during drill until Warrant Officer Gallagher would crack the pace stick down on his wrist. The way he'd refuse to put foundation or a plaster on his tattoo (a lion holding a Cornetto). I could have gone on. But I didn't fancy him at all. Of course not. I was straight. I'd only girlfriends.  
Only one, I could hear Lucie taunting me. You're gay! You're gay!  
"Carl?"  
Pete was talking. Shit. Sound intelligent.  
"Wha...?"  
Well done, div.  
This was what Lucie did. Whenever she'd bring back some Mark or Terry, she'd go all stupid.  
"The New York Dolls? I read somewhere Morrissey liked them when he was a kid so I looked them up and they were all right, y'know. Bit weird and all that, but they were good."  
You fancy your best friend, Lucie taunted.  
"Cool. What, were they punk, then?"  
"Yeah, early American punk. So go on then, you've only told me you like The Smiths. One can't live only on bread," he said, entirely un-ironically-except-for-the-curl-of-the-lips, "What else fills the ears of Carlos Barât?"  
Carlos. It suited me, of course, but any nickname he'd come up with so far had (Scouse Curtis, David Bowie, That-Barnet-Don't-Suit-You Turner)  
"Erm...The Velvet Underground."  
He gave a knowing nod, like I'd said the obvious, clichéd thing.  
"And The Clash."  
He smiled a little wider and looked mildly surprised.  
"Joe Strummer's gorgeous, don't you think?"  
I put down my drink. I didn't really know what to say.  
"Don't look at me like that."  
"Like what?"  
"Like you care that I..." he stopped, "I'm not gay."  
"No?"  
"Do we need to use words to describe something so..."  
"I get it!" I snapped, "You want to be like Morrissey so you say you fancy girls and boys!"  
You idiot! Lucie yelled, What the fuck do you think you're doing?  
Pete blinked and I wanted to hug him but my stupid pride stopped me. I stood up and ran out of the bar into the judgemental cold.


	9. Hospital, Part 2

_I feel really bad about posting this because it's shite._

Hospital, Part 2

We'd started writing letters to each other, like we used to. I'd started it so I could talk to him and the nurses, but he wrote back, because "Why shouldn't we speak the same language?"

_They say you've got PTSD. Shellshock, that's what we used to call it! They say that's not very PC, but fuck them. Good news, though, because they say I have to stay with you as much as possible. Why can't you talk? The Strand looks lovely from the window, if you want to look out. I like the dolphins in the loos. I like you. I miss you. Out To Get You, James. Good song. Watch while I stroke your hair and tell you I love you. Don't forget me if you kill yourself. I won't forget you._

_I'm not going to kill myself. I can't speak because if I do I'll scream. _(That had come to him in a dream. A figure who looked a little like the robot in the video for Technologic had told him)_ I love you and I love it when you stroke my hair. I love Out To Get You. Play it. Please. So I have shellshock. I'm not surprised. Ask them why it didn't manifest sooner. Ask them why I can't hear them. I'd never forget you._

_They say you only hear the one person you trust the most because you've reverted to 'factory settings' as the doctor put it. You trust me, but you don't trust them, and because of the chemical imbalance your refuses to hear what it doesn't trust. I've asked for them to put your favourite songs on loop- lots of Smiths, Velvet Underground and all the oldies. Get better._

_I will. I love you._


	10. Elephant, Track 5

_The chapter title is a White Stripes reference. For peachieO, and her excellent taste in music!_

Moonlight

I lit a fag. The smoke swirled off into the navy-blue night, wisps passing the full moon. I sighed. I wiped the tears forming in my eyes across my cheek and swallowed hard. I heard, faintly, footsteps, and then I was joined by a warm body. "I'm sorry," I said to the street in front of me.  
"I know you are."  
I turned to him and grabbed him by the shoulders. I spat out my fag and kissed him. His lips softened immediately. He opened his eyes and looked at me almost reproachfully. I pulled away quickly. "Sorry," I muttered.  
"Shut up and kiss me again."

We must have been kissing for a good five minutes when SC and some of the others came out. I heard them faintly behind us, but I couldn't hear them too well because at that moment Pete was looking into the sky like he wished he could fly off, and it made me heart tingle. There was a silence, but I hadn't heard them move away. I turned round and they were uneasily quiet. I could see SC search for something to say. "Yes?" said Pete, behind me.  
"I didn't know," said SC.  
"Didn't know what?" said Pete.  
"That you two were..."  
Pete's eyes flashed in challenge.  
"...Gay," finished SC at last.  
"And if we are?" I said, defensively.  
"Gays aren't allowed to serve in the RAF," growled a tall one with a scar down his nose.  
"Yeah," joined SC, "Go home, arse bandits."  
That was it. My fists burned and I'm sure that I cleared the distance between me and SC in a single step.  
"What was that?" I whispered into his eyes.  
"_Go...home...arse...bandits_," he intoned every word.  
So I punched him. A steady trickle of blood began running immediately from his nose and onto his lips.  
"Carlos!" Pete ran up and grabbed my shoulders, "Stop now."  
"Carlos!" scoffed SC.  
The others chuckled nervously.  
I gave Pete a look and he retreated slightly. I punched SC again and again. I can't remember how many times I punched him- it doesn't matter now. But I can clearly remember two images from those long and short two minutes- flecks of blood (my own or SC's?) landing on my shirt, and Pete's face as he turned away into the night.


	11. Arcadia

_Sorry it's a bit random_

Chapter 11

I ran after him. SC was probably jeering at me, but I couldn't give a shit. I craved Peter, more than the speed I'd promised mum I'd stopped taking, more than the packet of cigarettes which I watched fall out of my pocket. I stopped. There he was, face bathed in the watery glow of a street light, his eyes and lips shadows. He was beautiful. "Hey," I breathed, "What was that about?"  
"Violence doesn't solve anything. If you use violence, you're just like them."  
"Are you angry with me?"  
He sighed. "Not angry, Carl. I just thought...I thought you were better than them. I thought you were different."  
"I'm sorry." It was all I could say.  
He looked up and smiled a bit. "Do you know, you're the first person who's ever said that to me. When I was at school, there were these lads who would...I kept a notebook, and I'm not afraid to tell you that, Carlos, 'cause you'd understand. I'd write everything in there- chords, lyrics, poetry, guitar models- even if the sun was shining in a nice way, or I'd just seen a cat that had funny whiskers, I'd write it down. Sometimes they'd nick it and read it, or throw it in the mud. But I knew it would always be all right, 'cause it was called the book of Albi-ohh."  
He trailed off suddenly and bit his lip.  
"The book of what?" I pressed, gently.  
"Albion," he said, no louder than a whisper.  
"What's that?"  
"It's an ancient word for Britain. But it's a ship, in my head."  
"Going where?"  
"Arcadia."  
"Where?"  
"It's a magical place, Carlos, where there's no rules, no government, no war, no sadness. Where I can...where we can...we. Carlos, we- Arcadia's yours, too, now that I've..." tears were filling his eyes. "C'mon," he said suddenly, and took my hand, "Let me show you Arcadia, my boy!"


	12. In the Eye of the Moon

_Again, sorry for teh randoms_

Chapter 12

By the time we got to the roof, I was thoroughly sick of running. But Peter, if anything, looked more energised than he had in a while. "_This_, Carlos, is Arcadia!"  
"I don't get it," I said.  
"No, look."  
I looked. We were on the roof of the library, after Pete giving me a leg up and accidentally-on-purpose touching my bum. The night was clear. The moon was big and full. "It's an exceptionally pretty night," I commented.  
"Yes it is. And Arcadia is an exceptionally pretty night. It is everything perfect in this world. Like...like you."  
"Do these perfect nights include sex?"  
Peter giggled. "Not here!"  
"Why not?"  
"We're on the roof of a library!"  
"And Byron's ghost is going to come and ogle us shagging?"  
"We might get arrested!"  
"Well, then," I said, undoing his shirt, "You'd better be very quiet..."


End file.
